Wings and Forgefire
by TwinRavens
Summary: If you're looking for a classic Beauty and the Beast retelling, this tale is not for you. For the beast in this tale was not vain, she was truly evil. And the handsome villager had not set foot in a bookshop for years. When he ventures into the woods to save his elder brother from a storm, he makes a bargain with our beast. A bargain that is fated to change them both.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Casidhe heard the stranger's approach. Louder than the rain that pelted the roof of Iverling manor. Quieter than the thunder that shook the very foundations beneath her.

She didn't descend the stairs as she heard the hoofbeats and the clatter of wheels on the cobblestones outside. No, Casidhe remained in the shadows of the landing, watching the darkened foyer below, anticipating the knock or the bang or the turn of the handle that she knew would soon come.

After nearly twenty years of this routine, she knew what would happen once the stranger had entered her manor. They would shut the door against the storm before realizing that they were surrounded by lavish beauty. Even in the dim light, it would be hard for him to miss the grand chandelier or the twin marble staircases leading to the second floor.

None of the intruders ever climbed the stairs. Maybe they shied away from the dense shadows of the high landing. Maybe the hair on the backs of their necks rose to alert them that somebody watched them. But every intruder opted to cross the foyer and try the handles of the double doors that opened onto the rest of the first floor. They never made it past those doors. Those doors were always locked.

And when they turned to finally brave the path up the marble stairs, she was always waiting.

The wheels of the cart stopped whining. The steady drumbeat of the rain was joined by the sound of hurried footsteps.

Casidhe rolled her neck and pushed her cascade of raven curls over a shoulder. She took a deep breath in and as she exhaled the door opened.

As the breath left her body, a gust of wind rattled the chandelier and rustled the skirt of her dress. Perhaps something less dramatic would have been a better choice for today. Oh well, she could make as much noise as she wished as soon as...there.

The young man that had stumbled into her foyer and shut the door behind him, unknowingly locking himself inside.

Perhaps this time would be different.

She was bored and, after all, the hour was late. Her time was running short.

She needed to make her move soon or she would trade this prison of marble and brocade and light for one of bars and damp and decay.

This young man now wiping the rain from his eyes could be her ticket back into the world. He could be her ticket back to the skies. If he didn't die of fright first.

Casidhe took a step forward, her dark slippers noiseless on the marble.

Then another.

Both eyes on the young man backing towards the door as those full skirts rustled with each assured step downwards.

Yes, now he was probably figuring it out. He wasn't alone. Now was a good time to introduce herself.

"The door is locked."

His eyes snapped up to the patch of shadows she still clung to.

He didn't reply.

Casidhe scented the air but could not find a trace of fear on the young man.

Peculiar.

"Who's there?" The young man asked, hesitant but still not afraid.

"Besides you?" Casidhe asked as she reached the foot of the stairs.

No answer.

She strolled forward from complete shadow into partial gloom, her eyes never left his face as he took her in. As he stared straight into the face of Killdalla's most ruthless spy and feared assassin(As he stared into the face of the ruthless assassin that Killdalla feared more than any other), the young man frowned.

And it was in that moment Casidhe knew he would be just like her other prisoners.

For his eyes went straight to the place all their eyes went.

Straight to the dark wings that had once been her pride and joy.

The wings that marked her as the killer she was.

Clang.

Clouds are blocking out the sun.

Clang.

He struck the anvil again.

Aamon left hours ago.

Hammer up.

Down.

Clang.

There's going to be a storm.

Clang.

He'll be trapped in the woods.

Clang.

There are wolves in the woods.

Clang.

Worse.

"I pay you to mend my hardware, not reduce it to scrap!"

Brecken nearly dropped the hammer. The piece of metal he'd been pounding was not reduced to scrap but beaten just enough that he'd have to heat it and start over.

"Mind's not on your work today," said the gruff blacksmith.

Brecken merely glanced out the window towards the ominous cloud [banks] now enshrouding the entire valley

The blacksmith nodded.

"He knows how to handle the woods, boy," he said and crossed to his work bench where he sat on a stool that should've collapsed under his bulk, unrolled a leather wallet full of tools, and began sorting through them.

"It's not the woods," Brecken said as his eyes landed on a wall of iron traps, "it's the things you find inside them."

That wall had been lined with traps since Brecken's first visit to the smithy. Traps for foxes, wolves, bears, and one much bigger than any bear trap Brecken had ever seen. He'd roamed the first mile or so of the woods as a child, mapping out the little creeks and gullies, planning excursions further and further in.

When he was twelve, his older brother Aamon had brought him to Teller's blacksmith shop and apprenticed him there. When Teller had explained what creature that trap was meant to catch, Brecken's woodland adventures had come to an abrupt halt.

He wasn't the only one in his little town who was kept out of the woods by the stories told at night around roaring fires.

Aamon was the only one who ever left. Once a year, for around two weeks, a cart of Brecken's finest creations in tow. He always returned from the city markets with an empty cart and a full wallet, so Brecken never bothered to question the safety of the trips.

Until this year.

The heavy autumn storms weren't meant to start for another month.

And once they struck, travel up into the foothills and crags that surrounded the little town of Loxos would be nearly impossible.

Thunder rumbled over the valley.

Brecken took a long look out the front window, let out a huff of breath, and undid the fastenings of his filthy forge apron.

"I'm going after him," he said.

Teller turned on his stool.

"You've still got an hour's work to do here. And you don't need to be running off into the hills before a storm. Your brother's sensible, he'll be fine. But you go out there and you'll only make his situation worse."

Brecken crossed to a rack by the door and hung his apron on one of the pegs. "Aamon's all the family I've got and I'm not leaving him alone in the woods."

The blacksmith huffed a sigh and shook his head.

Brecken searched wildly for a reply before saying "I'll work my next holiday if I have to."

A tense moment passed in which the blacksmith stared into Brecken's determined eyes.

"Your next holliday," he finally said.

Brecken just gave his instructor a curt nod, turned on his heel, and left the shop.

Outside, summer's warmth had given way to the brisk winds and biting chills of autumn. The shift was a relief after the stifling heat of the smithy, but it was still too damned early for this kind of weather.

He tried not to make eye contact with the shoppers and venders he passed on his way to the smallest store in the village. It was a long walk and he needed to make it without stopping to talk. He ignored the calls of "fresh bread!" "eggs, two pewter marks per dozen!" And "fresh goat cheese!" Although he did have to make a concerted effort not to gag at the mere mention of the third item.

The bookshop was tucked away into the farthest corner of the town square. Brecken passed it often and once, years ago, he'd been the place's most frequent visitor.

That was all before he'd started his apprenticeship.

Before the townspeople began to notice that the tools Brecken mended never broke again. The traps he made always caught prey. The knives and daggers he sharpened never dulled. When Brecken was fourteen, Aamon found the plans for a suit of armor and suggested he try to make it. Teller allowed him to use the smithy in exchange for working extra hours.

After several months of failed attempts, Brecken produced his first suit of armor. Armor that no blade could pierce.

If there was any doubt that Brecken possessed a magical talent, it was erased with the creation of that armor. Aamon had suggested that Brecken create another and another after that. When summer was coming to an end, Aamon took the armor to a market in a city four days ride away from Loxos. He returned with enough money to support their simple lifestyle for nearly the entire year.

In the following months, Brecken's designs became more intricate and the skeptics in the village raised their voices. A fifteen-year-old boy, with one foot in always in the bookshop and both eyes trained on the mountains was an oddity.

But a boy who was gifted with magic, a boy who used that magic to create tools of war...that was a danger.

Brecken knew something had to change. And he had taken one look at the sketchbook filled with designs for embossed scabbards and scrolled plating and decided that his visits to Greyson's little bookshop would have to end.

From then on, he kept his eyes away from the mountains, from the sky, and the people's opinion changed with him.

Brecken became a young man who "worked hard at his trade and just happened to have a talent for metal work." Safe.

The ring of a bell sounded in the shop as he opened the door.

The scent hit him like a hammer on an anvil. He'd forgotten how good the smell of parchment paper was. He inhaled deeply through his nose but kept his features impassive as he surveyed the familiar shelves filled with books of all shape, size, and material. The tapestry of the Great Battle that hung from an empty wall. The patchwork of paintings that lined the plaster walls above the book cases. Familiar.

And for his own safety, forbidden.

"Good choice."

Brecken heard the bright voice before he spotted its owner, curled up in her usual armchair, a book open on her lap and a cup of tea on the table beside her.

"And what choice would that be?" Brecken asked as the door shut behind him.

"Pretending you don't love it in here," she said, her eyes drifting back to the book.

"I haven't been here in years, Rhoe," Brecken said, "I was just looking around."

"And what might you be looking for?" Asked Greyson, the shop's longtime owner.

Brecken turned away from Rhoe to find the old man emerging from his back room with a stack of books in one hand and his opinions in the other.

Greyson was an outsider, a man from one of the eastern coastal cities.

Even thirty years after moving to Loxos, Greyson still dressed in the bright colors, rich fabrics, and crisp fashions of that city. Fashions shipped to him along with new books for the shop. Brecken had always liked Greyson, but when he stopped coming to the bookshop he'd also stopped speaking with the old man. When he spotted Greyson in public, he had a disappointed air about him.

And Brecken understood the bookkeeper thought him a waste of potential, but Brecken's choice to give up Greyson's books and maps wasn't just to keep his reputation with the people spotless.

He told the old man he just needed a map of the surrounding area and scanned the paintings above the bookshelves.

Paintings he'd memorized as boy.

He didn't have trouble finding the one he most hated. An army of humans, their array of armor and weapons paired with magic rods and spell books struck a discordant harmony with the field of darkness and ash they marched through. Sorcerers. Those who were not born with magic in their blood but who claimed it for themselves, who tore pieces of it from the world that had not given it to them freely. And the magic in their spell books was of death and decay.

After that army of sorcerers had assembled, marched as crusaders for justice, and fallen in a final battle, the practice of sorcery had been outlawed in settlements across the continent. And only twenty years since that great final battle, the people were overly cautious around magic of all kinds and in this isolated town, many were hesitant around books of any kind. Brecken had given up Greyson's shop for one reason and one reason only: that he would never be accused of sorcery because of a gift he had been born with.

"Why a map of the woods?" Rhoe asked, her question a blessed distraction from the mural.

"Aamon left this morning. Before the storm started," Brecken said, and turned away from the image completely as he tried to erase it from his mind.

Rhoe just raised an eyebrow and said "and you're going out into the woods?"

Brecken sighed and took a seat in an armchair across from her.

"I'm not going out of desire," Brecken said.

He watched Rhoe for her reaction.

"You would've, once," she said.

Brecken shook his head. They weren't having this conversation. Not today.

"You know the cities are different. Morah was different. People there understood that men and women are intellectual equals... and somebody gifted in magic could enjoy books without being labeled a sorcerer."

Brecken opened his mouth to say something but she cut him off.

"I know that's why you stopped coming here a year before I came to Loxos. Don't even try to deny it," she said.

Greyson crossed the shop and deposited the map on the table beside Rhoe's tea. He batted away Brecken's thank you with a "don't mention it," and disappeared into his back room.

Brecken collected the book and stood. He ran his thumb along its aging spine and shook his head.

"I had better go pay for this," Brecken said, gesturing to the map.

Rhoe nodded, her brown and gold waves of hair catching the light of the comforting candles that lined the shop walls.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then?" She asked.

"Of course," Brecken said, and with that he wove his way through the shelves towards Greyson's back room.

He made no attempt to speak to Greyson beyond the question of the book's cost and had already completed the transaction and turned to leave the store when Greyson said "I heard every word you and Miss Annendor exchanged just now."

"And our conversation is none of your business," Brecken said, and turned back to face the bookkeeper.

A smile tugged at the corner of his lip and a light danced in his eye. "You used to come running in here, dirt on your knees all scraped up because you fell from a tree or tripped into a ditch. Insisting you'd been on adventures and that you'd been wounded fighting dragons or kelpie or the gods know what else," Greyson said.

Brecken just stared.

He's mad. He lives in the same daydream I used to. I know who I am and there is no secret part of my childhood trying to get back out into the world again.

Aloud, Brecken said "I loved those games, but there's no place for them in any but a child's world."

With that, he turned on his heel and made for the door.

Once again, the old man's voice stopped him.

"What would you know of the world, when you cannot see beyond the walls of this village and the confines of your own temperament?"

Brecken didn't answer this time, he strode for the door and stepped out into the street.

The gust of wind that met him was strong enough that he had to pull the door shut behind him, rather than letting it close on its own. He looked down the street the way he had come and found that the ease of the late afternoon shoppers had turned to anxious hurry. The storm clouds had darkened tenfold and, on the horizon, he could see heavy rains begin to fall. Once that rain reached Loxos, it could have him trapped in the valley within an hour.

He didn't have time to give the book to Teller, it would have to wait until he got back.

Brecken turned towards the outskirts of town. His plan was simple: get out of town, find Aamon, bring him home.

They could survive on hunting and the small wage from Brecken's apprentiship until spring. Then Aamon could take the armor into the city. The gold marks weren't worth the risk of his brother's life. Not when Aamon had left home with minimal provisions and no winter clothing.

But as he jogged away from Greyson's shop, Brecken couldn't shake the old man's words from his head. He agreed that he knew little of the outside world. The world of Loxos was safe and familiar and it had been his home since he was just over a year old.

And now he was racing home to his cottage on the outskirts of town. Preparing to leave.

It's only for a short time. You get Aamon and you get home.

But despite his self-reassurance, the knowledge that he was leaving the valley unsettled something in his core.

And for the first time in years, Brecken's eyes turned upwards. Towards the sky, towards the mountains.

And he could have sworn they looked back.


	2. A Manor in the Woods

**CHAPTER 2**

Brecken urged his horse forward, up through the pine woods of the Loxian forest.

He hadn't spent much time at the cottage. He hadn't even bothered to light a lamp before gathering supplies and winter cloaks and shoving them into a pair of saddlebags. As Brecken had run for their little stable, drips of rain began to join the wind in its attack of the small village.

Now, the rain pelted the hood of his winter cloak and the clap of thunder was becoming a steady drum in his ears. He rode up, up, up towards the mountains away from the safety of his home. He stopped only once, as he approached the spot on the road where he usually said a last goodbye to Aamon. A place he'd been earlier that day, transformed by the darkness of evening and the fledgling storm.

Beyond this point, the path was untrimmed and uncobbled. Branches and brambles grew thick and strong, choking any wholesome growth they reached and obscuring his view of the sky almost completely.

 _If Aamon can do it, I sure as hell can._

He spurred his grey draft horse Philip forward. And he was glad that the storm drowned out the sound of the cobbles beneath Philip's hooves turning to gravel, then eventually to damp earth.

Brecken followed the path for what could have been minutes or hours, heart pounding in his chest all the while, each thread on his back soaked until he shivered beneath them.

 _Come on, come on. We're so close._

He wasn't close, not really, but that phrase was the only thing keeping him from losing the will to go forward.

But the only landmark Brecken encountered was the demarcation line that separated Loxos's territory from the rest of the vast forest that swept through the many valleys of Killdalla's lowlands and the foothills of the great mountains that rose above the peaceful country.

The faint blue glow on the trail ahead of him, the line of ancient stones meant to keep evil doers outside their boundaries. Brecken had never seen that line before, only heard the stories Aamon told upon returning from the city.

As he urged Philip towards them the horse whinnied.

"What is it?" Brecken asked.

His voice was drowned out by the storm raging around them and yet as they approached the bluish light of the boundary, the noise and the wind seemed to fall away into nothing. The branches on the trees nearest the line did not stir.

So that was what Philip had sensed. The magic that permeated the air surrounding the stones. Brecken sensed it then, the call of the magic in those stones. The entity that recognized the power in his own blood.

" _Who are you?"_ Asked a melodic voice, neither male nor female, calling him towards that line.

Brecken pulled hard on the reins and turned in the saddle.

The path behind him was empty.

" _Brecken? Is that you?"_

"Oh hell," Brecken said aloud.

This was bad. This was why people stayed in Loxos. This was why he hadn't come this far into the woods, even as a child.

" _Then go home,"_ said the voice, closer this time, as if it had heard the very thoughts in his head.

Brecken gulped and clenched his teeth.

 _I am not going home._

" _If you pass through my boundary, you'll be well on your way home."_

"Loxos is my home!" Brecken said into the silence. His voice echoed around him, repeating his words back to him over and over again.

That voice just laughed, a sound like a hundred bells, both high and low, haunting and beautiful...and mocking.

"Will you let me pass?" He asked.

His voice did not echo this time.

Finally, the voice said, " _I remember the first time you crossed my border. A babe no more than a month old. I have sometimes wondered why I allowed you to pass into Loxos. You see, even then I knew you would be trouble for that place, Son of iron and silver. But I cannot stop the powerful from entering into my territory, only those of impure intention. As your intent remains pure, I cannot prevent you from passing."_

Brecken didn't wait for the voice to continue. If he stayed, if he opened his mouth to ask the questions threatening to pour unbidden from his lips he could be there for hours.

So, he pulled back on the reins and said "go!"

Philip charged over the glowing stones and Brecken didn't look back as the guardian of the path's last words echoed behind him.

All he could think of was Aamon. Aamon, who was out here somewhere far down the path. Aamon, who had told him that he was over a year old when they had come to Loxos.

The woods beyond the demarcation line were, if it was possible, denser than the woods within the Loxian valley.

An hour later, they reached level ground and the forest thinned enough for the rain to pour down on horse and rider with renewed vigor. It was not long thereafter that they reached a fork in the trail.

Brecken dismounted and rubbed the ridge of Philip's muzzle.

"Where are we going, boy?" He asked.

The horse was unhelpfully and predictably silent.

The right trail led downwards, probably into the next valley.

The left led further up the mountainside the trail wound alongside up until that point. The chance that the road to the city was up a mountain was slim, if there was a chance to begin with, so Brecken mounted his horse and nudged him towards the lower path.

One last glance towards the upper path had Brecken reining in Philip. He dismounted once again and crossed the fork to the upper path.

A flash of lightening arched across the sky, illuminating the path for a split second. That was all Brecken needed to confirm his suspicions.

Gouged into the muddy path were two long ruts: the marks of a cart.

Those marks couldn't have been made before the rains had first moistened the ground earlier that evening.

 _But why would Aamon take the path up the mountain?_

Brecken's question was answered by a drawn-out howl from somewhere in the woods to the right.

Somewhere along the lower path.

His heart jumped into his throat and he spun to face the noise.

This was bad.

He ran for Philip, practically jumped into the saddle and spurred his horse towards the mountain path.

Philip whinnied and reared up onto his hind legs.

Brecken nearly lost his grip.

He slid backwards on Philip's back as a second howl broke through the night. A third and fourth answered their companion's summons and Brecken regained his balance and urged Philip forward.

They galloped up the mountain trail as quickly as Brecken dared to go. Another chorus of howls reached Brecken's ears, then all was silent.

He didn't dare slow his pace as they wound their way around bends and up always up the mountain side.

Minutes passed and the sounds of rain and thunder remained the only ones to reach Brecken's ears.

Each time the lightning struck, Brecken caught sight of the ruts left by Aamon's wheels.

Good.

No sign of blood on the road.

No sign the cart or horse had been sabotaged.

All was as it should be.

Save for the great grey wolf that stepped out onto the path ahead of him, four legs spread apart, ears pressed back against his dripping fur, dominating the path.

Brecken didn't miss a beat. He turned Philip back the way they had come and spurred him into motion.

The horse reared and brayed as another wolf skulked onto the path, growling. They were trapped.

Howls sounded on either side. No chance of escape through the woods.

He needed time. Time to think, to grab hold of the scraps and pieces of a plan that began to form in his mind.

The wolves closed in, step by step. On either side, Brecken could see the eyes of their pack mates blinking into existence through the tree line.

 _Think. Think. Think._

"Go!" Brecken shouted.

He spurred Philip towards the grey wolf and Philip, thank every higher power, didn't shy away. It was as if the horse knew the only way they'd make it out of this was to startle their attackers long enough to get away.

At the last possible second, Philip hurtled into the air, cleared the wolf's head, and smashed back onto the path.

The collision jarred every bone in Brecken's body.

Philip didn't need his guidance. The horse took off down the path, at a pace faster than any Brecken had traveled.

Brecken chanced a look over his shoulder and found the pack in hot persuit. The leader let out a blood chilling howl that sent a shiver of pure terror down Brecken's spine.

He couldn't out run them forever. These creatures knew the trails and paths of the forest. This was their territory and Brecken's horse was not built for the tight turns and uneven terrain of this place. It was just a matter of time before the pack caught them and ripped them to pieces.

He found himself wishing he'd kept one of the swords he'd made, if only to have a weapon. A means of self-defense. A way out of this situation other than running with no hope of escape.

Another howl sounded and lightning struck once more, illuminating the path ahead. Aamon's cart had passed this way. Still no sign of blood or ripped clothing on the branches that surrounded the trail.

Maybe, just maybe he could survive this. If he managed to find Aamon in time, they could fight the wolves with the weaponry in the cart. The swords that never missed their mark. The two finely crafted battle axes that struck true with each swing.

Philip just had to keep up this pace until they could get far enough ahead.

Brecken turned to get another look at the pack only to find the alpha right on their heels. Silent as a shadow, the great grey had managed to stay in his blind spot. Now Brecken could see the yellow of its fangs and the ferocity in its snarl.

He urged Philip to go faster and the horse whinnied. He was near his breaking point and needed to rest soon but he sped up nevertheless.

As they hurtled up the mountain path, winding around bends and through small clearings, he took yet another look at the wolves. Only two, the alpha and a pure white wolf, remained on the trail. The others, no doubt, were tracking them through the woods.

Predictability in this situation could be his downfall.

He pulled on the reigns and Philip tossed his head and slowed.

No.

"Turn!" Brecken yelled.

Behind them, the grey alpha howled again.

Philip obliged and turned off the trail and into the forest, now thinning out enough for the draft horse to pass between the trees without scraping his sides or unseating Brecken.

They jumped a fallen tree, barely visible in the darkness.

The wolf attacked before Philip's back hooves hit the ground.

All Brecken felt was a giant weight hit him, and bowl him out of the saddle.

The breath was driven from his lungs as he hit the ground.

The wolf landed nimbly only feet from him. Brecken scrambled to his feet and the wolf growled. Not a menacing growl, but one of triumph. Brecken gasped, trying to regain his breath and clear his spinning head. His vision went double and he stumbled backwards. The twin wolves before him crouched, ready to pounce. Ready to end his life.

Then Philip was in front of him, the horses considerable mass a solid barrier between Brecken and his attacker. The horse reared up to his considerable full height and struck out at the wolf. It turned and ran off into the woods, howling as it went.

Brecken didn't dare to watch it go. He heaved himself into the saddle, groaning as his aching muscles were forced to pull his weight off the ground.

He spun his head, looking for the best way through the woods.

Seconds.

He had seconds before the pack would be back on his tail.

And that was when he saw it. A light in the distance. Several feet above his head. Too warm to be a star and too high from the ground to be a campfire. Brecken squinted and, sure enough, the space around the light was darker than the rest of the sky.

A building.

At that moment it didn't matter why there was an inhabited building so high in the mountains. All that mattered was the doors and walls that protected against the monsters of the forest.

Without a second thought, Brecken urged Philip forward, through the trees, towards the place that was their best chance of survival.

The pack chorused as Philip barreled through the trees. If the wolves had lost their trail, they'd just rediscovered it.

The trees grew thicker and thicker, obscuring the light until it was nothing more than a pinprick. Branches slashed across Brecken's face but he didn't dare take a hand off of Philip's bridle to shield himself.

Just a little farther.

Just a little farther.

Philip broke through the trees into a clearing unlike any they'd passed through that night. A plane of neatly trimmed grass broken only by a grand metal gate that extended outwards in a circle as far as Brecken's human eyes allowed him to see.

The gate stood sentinel and guard before a great manor house wreathed in shadows and rain. And behind the manor, the mountain rose into the clouds.

Philip trotted forward before Brecken could signal him to do so. Towards the gates separating horse and rider from salvation. Once the gates towered above them, their ornate design apparent at such a short distance, Brecken dismounted.

The warning bells in his head began to chime as soon as he beheld the latch that protected this grand house from unwanted company.

It was little more than a decorative sliding bolt. Easy to open from both inside and out. Of course, wolves couldn't open even the simplest of sliding bolts. Whatever waited for them inside the manor couldn't possibly be worse than the wolves.

And if there was danger? Well...at least it would be human.

Brecken slid the bolt back and pushed the gate. It opened on silent hinges. He led Philip through and shut the gate behind them. As he drew the bolt, Brecken saw movement on the edge of the forest. It was the pack.

One by one the wolves emerged, standing silent at the tree line.

They had changed. Not in form but in some way beyond nature. It made the hair on the back of Brecken's neck rise-the sight of them watching him.

No. Watching the manor behind him.

He didn't turn to walk down the cobbled path towards the front steps until each set of glowing eyes had disappeared into the forest.

He finally turned Philip and began to guide him towards the manor.

As he neared the it, the sheer size of the place struck him. Far bigger than any building in Loxos, the house towered into the air, swathed in shadows that concealed its full height and breadth from him. Beautiful. And it gave Brecken pause.

The wolves had shied away from this place. They'd just abandoned their chase at the sight of this house. Moreover, for the second time that evening, Brecken could feel the hum of magic in the air around him. In the stones beneath his feet.

And he was weary of it. For it was a magic much greater than that of the blue stones on the Loxian border. Not evil. But powerful. He knew better than to enter the great manor, for as soon as he set foot inside, he would be at the mercy of whomever dwelt in this great estate. He decided to spend the rest of the night on the far side of the great set of steps that lead up to the manor's double doors.

At dawn, he would leave this place behind, recover his trail, and return home.

Had it really been only hours since he'd spoken to Rhoe in the bookshop? Rhoe. The thought of her golden-brown eyes, flecked with brilliant shades of emerald warmed him against the steady rainfall.

He was about to settle down against the steps, with only his horse and his own thoughts for company, when he saw it.

He bounded up the steps three at a time, nearly falling on his face before he reached the threshold. There lay a dagger. Beautiful, if Brecken said so himself, and bound in a supple leather scabbard. Brecken turned to look over the grounds and squinted.

No sign of the cart. No sign of Leah, Aamon's dun mare.

But there was the dagger, one of Brecken's finest pieces to date, left before the doors of this place. Dropped, most likely.

Aamon had gone inside.

And where his brother went, he would follow. If it meant bringing his brother back to Loxos, he would enter.

The latch gave way under Brecken's steady hand and he pushed the door open.


End file.
